I decide to open a box of books and begin stacking them one by one on to my bookshelf. As I do, David goes back into the kitchen, and I hear him taking off his tool belt and putting it on the floor. He comes back out, walks to the door, and turns to look at me.
“Thanks for lunch, Emma. I’ll be back tomorrow. And I won’t use the door buzzer this time.” He is out the door before I can say goodbye.
* * *
What the hell has happened today? I am used to people getting me fired up. I am used to being angry. I am used to my temper. But I am not used to squelching it...and I am exhausted. Was all that crap flirting or mocking? I can’t figure out if I should be pissed off or flattered. Goddamn me. Goddamn him. He’s probably going to some bar tonight where he’ll brag to his friends about the smart-ass redhead he is working for and how much he enjoys watching her squirm. I decide to be pissed off instead of flattered...which doesn’t surprise me one damn bit.
I walk back to my room to check my email, and while I am there, I check my cell phone. There is no message from Carl.
Chapter Four
Emma—Age 13
That prick Michael has taken my mom away yet again. This time for three weeks. And I am left in this house alone. Carol doesn’t come watch me anymore because Michael says he is not paying for a nanny when my brothers can keep an eye on me. I’m thirteen now and both my brothers are in college—I don’t understand exactly how that translates to “keeping an eye on me,” but it’s definitely better than having that chimney Carol here for three weeks.
Mom left a check for me on the kitchen counter. It is signed but otherwise blank. It’s what she does every time he takes her on one of his trips. He calls them “buying trips,” but I have no idea what they actually buy because they never come home with anything more than they left with. I am supposed to fill out the check for however much I want, make it out to cash, and then walk it down to the bank. How the hell do I know how much money I am going to need to live off of for three weeks? I decide to screw them both and make the check out for two thousand dollars. That should do it, right? Michael will probably kick my ass when he sees the amount, but he is a thousand miles away right now, and I don’t give a damn. He’s going to be pissed no matter how much money I take out, so I might as well make it worth it.
I spend my time going to school, which I actually like, hanging out with my friends, and playing volleyball. I’m on the girls’ team at school, and I’m actually half-decent at it.
When Saturday comes, my brother Ricky calls. I think he is drunk, and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.
“I’m coming to get you at eight o’clock,” he says. “Michael told me to keep an eye on you while they’re gone. You can hang with me and Evan.” I feel disgusted. My brothers are practically grown men, and I have to go and hang out with them on a Saturday night. They’ll probably take me to some R-rated movie just to watch me squirm. Do they not realize that if I wanted to get into trouble, I could do it whenever I damn well please? I don’t have to wait until a Saturday night. I am thirteen and pretty much living by myself for weeks on end. The potential for trouble is slapping me in the face.
I gotta say, though, for being alone so much, I really don’t get into that much trouble. I don’t steal or drink or smoke or have sex. Not yet anyway—but I’m working on the sex part with Jack Darris. He’s a smokin’ hot tenth-grader. We’ve come close but haven’t gone all the way yet. The only trouble I actually get into is for fighting—and that’s only when I get caught, which I usually don’t. A good scrap makes me feel better. It makes me feel better about Michael, about my brothers, about life in general.
My mom says I have a hot temper, which is definitely true. What can I say? People piss me off. And when I get pissed off, I go all postal. I want to beat the crap out of them. I know that my mom has been trying to talk Michael into sending me to some shrink for my—what was the word she used? Oh, yes—rage, because I heard them talking about it one night. He said that God would fix it and that I just needed to keep going to Sunday school. Fuck him. What he doesn’t know is that every time I look at my Sunday-school teacher, it makes me want to go postal. Seeing her definitely does not fix my “rage issue.” It aggravates the hell out of it.
I hang around the house for a few more hours, make myself some dinner, and watch a couple of Law and Order reruns. A little before eight o’clock, I run upstairs and change into a better pair of jeans and a clean shirt. I decide on the one that Jack says makes me look older. I put on a little eyeliner and mascara and brush out my hair. I’m skinny, yes, but I think Jack is right. This shirt does make me look older. Sixteen, at least.
Ricky is pretty well trashed when he picks me up, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to start a fight right now. Chances are, he’ll pass out halfway through the movie anyway, and then I’ll only have to put up with Evan, and he isn’t half as bad as Ricky. In fact, Evan’s a half-decent guy when Ricky isn’t around. It’s as if Ricky’s presence instantaneously turns Evan into some kind of stupid minion. I hate it.
As I open the car door, thinking about Ricky’s flair for brotherly manipulation, a memory comes crashing into me, one that almost keeps me from going with them. It was the summer after my mother married Michael, and my brothers and I were still pretty close. Michael had just begun to weave his way in between us. My brothers and I were playing in the creek behind the house, throwing stones and swimming. It was my turn to swing out on a rope and drop down into the water, but I was afraid and I didn’t let go in time. Instead of falling into the water, I dropped on to the ground. My leg scraped against a stump, and I knocked my head hard enough to give myself a ringing concussion. I was crying when my mother came rushing from the back porch. She knelt down beside me and brushed my hair out of my eyes, asking me if I was all right. My brothers were looking down at me, their faces streaked with worry, their fingers fidgeting.
Then I heard Michael’s voice. He was walking toward us, asking what I did this time, sighing as if my falling was the biggest hassle he’d ever faced. As soon as my brothers heard his voice, their faces changed. They stepped back away from me and tightened their expressions, replacing their worry with casual indifference. Toughening themselves up. Michael walked up to us and put a hand on each of their shoulders, telling my mother how clumsy I was, berating me for being dumb enough to forget to let go of the rope. I was scared, I told him, not dumb. When he asked my brothers if they thought that their little sister was being dumb, Ricky looked up at Michael and enthusiastically nodded his head. Then he elbowed Evan in the ribs until the pair of them were nodding and smiling at Michael like a pair of twin cronies begging for his approval. As they walked away from me and my mother, I saw Evan peek back, and for a split second, a small, sympathetic grin flashed at me. It was the first time I felt betrayed.
In the years since then, betrayal and duplicity have become second nature to my brothers, and I’ve been stung by them more times than I can count. I’ve learned to distance myself from them, to shut them out whenever possible. Tonight, however, shutting them out is not an option. Unless I want to get into a huge fight. Which I do not.
I get in the backseat and buckle up.
We stop by Evan’s apartment to pick him up, and he fist-bumps Ricky as soon as he gets into the car, then turns around and gives me a nod. I think for a few moments that maybe it will be a decent night after all. But then Ricky pulls out of the parking lot and turns left, away from the theater and toward the university. Ricky and Evan start talking, and their conversation makes it clear that we aren’t going to see a movie. We’re going to a party. A fraternity party.
Ricky looks at my reflection in the rearview mirror and starts talking to me. He says all sorts of shit about where we are going and how I am supposed to behave while we are there. I wonder what my Sunday-school teacher would think about my going to a college party. I’m silently laughing at the thought of it all when we pull up to the house.
I am
going to my first fraternity party at thirteen years old. I am both nervous and excited. Ricky’s behavior lecture was pretty clear. I can drink, I can smoke, I can dance...but I cannot tease his friends. I believe his exact words were: “If you are going to flirt with my friends, then you damn well better be prepared to put out. Nobody likes a dick-tease, Emma.” Uh, I am thirteen years old, you asshole. Putting out is not on the evening’s agenda.
There are about a million people in the house. The floor is sticky, and I can barely hear myself think over the pulsating music. Evan introduces me to their friend Lainey who decides to take me under her wing. She grabs my hand and hauls me to the basement for a beer. My brothers disappear to God-knows-where. At least in the basement the music is quieter. People are playing Ping-Pong with cups of beer lined up on the table. They are shooting pool. They are bouncing quarters off the table and into full cups of beer. It is a brand-new wonderland, and I can’t stop watching them. They are all laughing and talking, and there is no awkwardness. There are no social bystanders. Only people having fun. I have been to a few high school parties with Jack, and I can tell you that they are nothing like this. High school parties are freak shows of self-consciousness. Everyone is too busy caring about what everyone else is thinking. This, though...this is different. Suddenly I cannot wait to get to college. Screw Jack Darris. I want a boy like these boys. One who doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone. One who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything but being himself.
Lainey comes back with a couple of beers and starts chattering with a bunch of other girls. I am left to my own devices in the basement of my brothers’ fraternity house, and before I know it, I am playing quarters and drunk off my ass. Nobody asks me who I am or how old I am or why I am here. They just feed me their beer and their laughter and treat me like I am their very best friend.
At three in the morning everyone starts to filter out of the house. The music has stopped, and the kegs are kicked. Through my beer-bleary eyes, I watch couples leave together. I watch groups of girls walk arm-in-arm out the door. I watch boys stagger down the front walk and out on to the street. I feel euphoric, and I don’t quite think it’s entirely due to the beer. I want to skip over the next five years of my life and get right to the good part. I want Ricky and Evan to bring me back here again.
As I stumble around trying to find them, two boys come up behind me and hook their arms into mine, one on each side. I think for a second that they might be my brothers, but then I realize they are far too cute to be Ricky and Evan. They are laughing at me, and I think it is because I am not at all walking straight. I feel sloppy and small between them. The boys take me up the stairs to where the bedrooms are. I am leaning on them hard, and my head is wagging from side to side. I try to look up, but my neck feels like jelly. When we get to the top of the steps, I see Ricky. He is standing with his arm around Lainey’s shoulder, and there is a big smile on his face. I can hear him laughing at me. Laughing at his drunk-off-her-ass thirteen-year-old sister. I want to punch him in the fucking face, but I can’t because my two escorts have turned left and are walking me down the hallway.
Then from behind me I hear: “I warned you, Emma.” And more laughing.
Chapter Five
Emma—Present Day
I wake to a scraping sound. I look around my room, bleary-eyed and blinking. The light is coming in between the blind slats, and it’s far brighter than it should be for so early in the morning. I glance at my bedside table and see my mother’s sweet face nestled tightly against my own. The picture never fails to make me smile. I can’t contain the rush of memories the image brings, and I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I check my alarm clock. Shit. It isn’t early at all. It’s nearly nine-thirty.
As I swing my feet to the floor and sit up, I hear the scraping sound again. What is that? I wipe my face with my hands, rub my eyes, and run my fingers through my hair. I can’t believe how rested I feel, and I still have the whole weekend to relax before I’m off to my new office on Monday. I stand up slowly and head to the bathroom. I desperately need to brush my teeth.
I enter the bathroom, and out of habit, I almost shut and lock the door behind me. But then I remember that I live alone now, and I don’t have to close the door if I don’t want to. I leave it open and smile at myself in the mirror. I brush my teeth, splash some warm water on my face, and sit down to have a pee. As I head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, I hear the scraping sound again. I stop in the hallway, and hear a series of smaller, quieter scraping sounds. They are coming from the kitchen.
Without thinking twice, I round the corner into the kitchen, and there on the floor on his hands and knees is David. What the fuck? How did he get in here? He looks over at my feet, and in what seems like slow motion, his eyes make their way up my body to my face. I can see that he is spreading some kind of thick glop on to the bare floor and scraping it out with a flat trowel. A few rows of tiles are positioned on top of the glop with little plastic X’s in between them. He looks up at me as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t open his mouth. I think he can see my skin starting to burn.
“What the fuck, David?” I shout. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know how to fucking knock? Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me.”
“You couldn’t have been too scared, since you stopped for a piss on your way out.”
Oh, my fucking God! I want to kick him in the face.
“And for the record,” he says, “I did knock, but I also have a key, so when you didn’t answer, I let myself in. I’m not going to miss half a day’s work just because you sleep like a fucking rock.”
Now I really want to kick him in the face. “You have a key to my apartment? What the hell.” I swear I am going to punch Carl in the teeth the next time I see him. I am enraged. David is now sitting back on his feet with his hands on his thighs. He is calm as fuck and looking right at me.
“I can’t imagine what the hell would possess you to think it would be okay for you to come in here—without my permission—while I am sleeping!” I am screaming at him, and my skin is searing.
“I did tell you I was coming back today, Emma,” he says, barely loud enough for me to hear. “And we had lunch together and a decent conversation. I honestly didn’t think it would be a problem.” He is looking up at me, and even though he is fully collected, I can see that crazy current running through him again. Damn it. He did this on purpose. He came in here, without my permission, just to watch the fireworks. Well played, David. And, Emma, you are a fool.
I want nothing more than to tell him to fuck off, but I know that is precisely what he wants. So instead, I try to rein myself in. “Well...it is a problem, David,” I say as coolly as I can.
“Well...then I won’t do it again, Emma,” he adds, almost penitently. He is still on his knees looking at me, and all I can do is sigh and shake my head. I am furious with myself for not recognizing his game and letting him get the best of me. And I am furious with him for coming in here and making me feel this way.
I suddenly want to be by myself, to let the adrenaline run its course. I don’t want to look at the wreckage of my kitchen. Or at him. Or at those damn birds. “I’m going to take a shower, David,” I say with blatant resignation in my voice. “Please, tell me you don’t have a key for that door, too.” He smiles a wicked, closed-mouth grin, and I can tell that he has found my whole incensed reprimand quite satisfying. Bastard.
“I’m sorry, Emma. Really. I won’t come in here again without you opening the door.” I can’t believe it, but he actually loses the grin and drops his eyes to the floor as he says it. I can’t quite tell if it’s real remorse I hear in his voice or if it’s just part of the game.
I shower, dress and fix my hair and makeup, all while attempting not to lose my temper. I have so much to do this weekend, and I try to focus on creating a mental list of the items I’d like to check off. I consider adding “Ask Carl to change the door lock” to my list, but
since David is his maintenance guy, he’d probably just give him a copy of the new key anyway. Eventually, I come out of the bathroom and walk toward the kitchen to get some breakfast. I smell coffee.
“I made some coffee,” David says as I turn the corner. “I just used the bag of Dunkin’ sitting next to the coffeemaker. I hope you don’t mind.” Of course I mind, you arrogant ass. This is not your apartment. That is not your coffee. You don’t even know how strong I like my Dunkin’.
“That’s very nice of you, David. Thanks.” I walk over to the coffeepot. It is sitting on a place mat on the little table in the living room. Sitting next to it are two mugs, which I do not recognize, a spoon, a cup of milk from the fridge, and a bunch of tiny packets of sugar. I don’t have any tiny packets of sugar, so I immediately wonder where they came from. “Oh, wow,” I say. “Quite the setup.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t find your mugs or your sugar, so I ran up to my place to get some.” He shrugs and then adds, “At least I waited a half hour before I broke my promise not to come into your apartment without you opening the door. I make a mean cup of coffee, though, so I think you’ll find it was worth the risk.” Ugh.
I pour a cup for each of us and notice that he takes his black. I usually do, too, but I feel strangely guilty about not using any of the sugar he went upstairs for. I tear open one of the packets and pour it into my coffee.
“Just so you know, your new cabinets and countertops are going to be delivered today,” he says. “They said we should expect them sometime this afternoon. If you’ve got shit to do, I’ll be here all day, so don’t feel like you have to stick around. I’m not going to steal anything, especially since you know where I live, and I’m not into trying on your panties or anything like that. I promise.” He puts his hands up in surrender as he says the last sentence.
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